


Waste

by youretoolate999



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Abuse in a relationship Is Not Okay, Attempts at historical accuracy were made, Body insecurity, Disordered Eating, Drinking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, More tags to be added, au: no band, author is not english or familiar with British slang, domestic abuse, i think, if this shit is received well or if i get sad again haha, still can’t write
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 22:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19450663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youretoolate999/pseuds/youretoolate999
Summary: trials and tribulations





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i dont own the Beatles and none of this is true. also to be noted is Abuse Is Not Okay! and finally, any critique is welcome. extremely welcome because writer knows he is Bad

His head throbbed with each thumping beat of his heart. He wished it would just stop. 

The blood under Paul’s skin pooled beneath the slowly darkening marks left by the hands of another man. His man, who had happened to be angry at him. 

It was Paul’s fault, really, he thought. He had provoked John yet again. He’d been on edge the whole week; Paul’s presence seemed to only make his mood worse, as if he was always underfoot and unwanted and too needy.  
Especially when John was drunk; the older man was either cheerful or angry. No inbetween. 

Not that it justified getting hit. 

nonetheless, he pulled himself out of his bedsheets and onto his feet to start getting ready to go and see John. Rubbing his eyes, Paul dragged his body into the small bathroom in the flat, flicking on the light and half heartedly lifting his gaze to the mirror.

He met his eyes in the reflection; tired and dark. His pale skin seemed dull; his stomach growled almost guiltily. 

He would most definitely “forget” to eat. Again. 

Blinking quickly, he diverted his attention to the task at hand. Paul had to stay focused, formulate some sort of excuse for the bruises decorating his body, especially the fat lip he’d acquired. “C’mon, bloody idiot,” he murmured to himself. 

Undressing, he began to take an inventory of sorts, hands gently passing over the soft skin of his chest and stomach. Only a few marks; they’d be gone in a few days, a week at most. His wrist was a different story. The bruise was a deep purple and blue, a few of John’s fingers visible on his forearm. 

Directing his gaze back to his torso, Paul sighed dejectedly as his fingertips grazed the slight tummy he couldn’t seem to get rid of. 

“Christ, have some fuckin self control,” his voice quivering slightly as his stomach ached hungrily at the thought of the last time (or times, rather) he had binged in the recent past. 

He knew John noticed that he’d gained weight, gently teasing him on occasion. As the days dragged on, the pair’s typical spats became more frequent, and the teasing rather hurtful. He knew John was stressed with work and his aunt constantly on his case, chiding him like a child to be a more responsible adult. Paul was trying his best to appear positive and unbothered, keeping himself out of reach so the other man wouldn’t be able to feel Paul’s fat or find something to argue about.

He couldn’t even undress in front of John anymore; his ass, tummy, and thighs literally jiggled when he walked (only slightly, but still.)

He knew he was a fucking mess, an utter and blatantly obvious mess. 

Paul placed a hand on his stomach, squeezing the soft skin. He let out another sigh as he turned to start a bath. No matter how shitty Paul felt, John had to be checked up on. John couldn’t be left alone to his own devices for long. It wasn’t his fault Paul was this way. 

Because if Paul was simply a mess, John was a dumpster fire; therefore it was Paul’s duty to shut his mouth and take everything John threw at him with a smile, holding onto every moment in which his lover reciprocated the gentle love and care Paul provided


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yes

Walking out of his room and into the hall, Paul entered the main room of the flat. George had Ringo on the couch, partially seated on the older man’s lap and a lit cigarette sitting between his lips. Ringo’s hand sat on George’s bony hip, his other resting on one of his legs. 

God, he was jealous of the skinny man. 

He smiled at them, getting two in return and an energetic “G’morning, Paul!” from the oldest. 

“G’mornin, Ritch, morning George,” he said, forcing effort into his tone to sound natural, or anything but what he was. 

The smile didn’t leave Ringo’s lips, but his eyebrows furrowed with worry. George opened his mouth to let smoke lazily drift out. When he spoke, his voice was thick, more smoke puffing out with each word. 

“What happened?” He gestured to his own face, Paul biting back a frown at the question. 

“Nothin’, just a little cut. Could I bum a fag, Geo?” he replied, trying to keep his expression even. 

The younger man shifted on Ringo’s lap, picking up his pack from the coffee table and tossing it to Paul. 

“Need a light?” Ringo asked, holding out his lighter. Paul accepted it, muttering a thanks as he let the cigarette dangle from his mouth, making sure not to irritate his busted lower lip. 

“Ey, Paul, you don’t have to tell us, but you’re our mate, so you know we’ve got to ask. Who’d you piss off the other night?” George inquired. 

His smile faltered for a second, but Paul reeled his mind back in and put on his ‘everything’s fine’ face. He was good at that by now. A talent, truly. 

“Nothing to tell, really. Just someone I told to sod off. Got a little cross with me, see. But it’s alright.” He smirked, adding “and you should see him.” Paul bit his lip to keep himself from rambling on, wincing when the pressure agitated his already angry-looking cut. 

Ringo grinned back, George shaking his head at the other man. 

“That’s our boy, huh, Geo?” He said, pulling George close for a moment before letting him settle back into the couch. 

Paul handed the lighter back to Ringo, ruffling George’s hair and swiftly stepping back before the younger could swing. 

“Well, I’m off, lads. Got to see Johnny boy before he gets worried that I haven’t visited him yet.” His tone playful, he took a drag of his ciggie. 

“He’s on his way back by now, Paul. Worked the graveyard shift,” George said, taking another long drag from his cigarette. It was nearly a stub now, held between two spindly fingers. 

“Oh. Right.”

“Ye hungry? Geo obviously ate already, so ‘ave I,” Ringo asked, lighting up his own cigarette. He received a face full of smoke from George, who blew his latest drag out at him teasingly. 

Taking a deep drag of his own, Paul shook his head, giving the seated men another soft smile before sitting down on a chair near them. He exhaled, letting the wisps of smoke surround his face and hide his expression for a brief moment before they dissolved in the air. 

“Ta, Ritch, but I’m fine. I’ll make sure John eats, he must be starving.”

As if on cue, the door knob rattled as a key slammed into the hole, turning quickly and opening seconds later. 

“Honeys, I’m home!” 

“‘Ello, scrubber,” George replied with a smirk. 

“Well, fuck, son, a bit hostile this morning, ey? Paul, Rich, what’d you lads do to the poor boy?” 

"Just roughed 'im up a bit, morning routine, y'know," Ringo laughed, letting George slip off his lap and off the couch. Paul smiled softly, gluing his eyes to the floor. Yanking his shoes and coat off at the door, John threw them down in a pile. 

He walked over to Paul, lifting his chin up with a finger til the other man’s eyes met his. John gave him a soft “ey, luv”, receiving a small smile and an even softer “hey, Johnny” back. 

Pecking the slightly taller man on the cheek, John pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, holding it out to George who stood a few feet away from the couple, glaring expectantly at the back of John’s head. 

“Took you long enough, Lennon. Thought you'd forgotten again. Ta,” he said, thwacking the pack against the wall twice. He headed back to assume his position on Ringo’s lap. 

“Yer welcome, Hazza. Now leave me and my boy be, yeah? Haven’t seen ‘im in ages.” 

Leading Paul to their bedroom, he waved at the other men, a smirk on his lips and exhaustion in his eyes. Fingers intertwined with his, John gave Paul’s a gentle squeeze. 

Once inside, he shut the door and turned to face Paul, placing a hand on his hip and another on his face, thumb carefully stroking Paul’s soft cheek, as if trying to love the dark circles from under his baby’s eyes away. 

“Did I do that to your lip?” He asked, frowning. 

When Paul looked away, he let out a deep sigh, leaning in to connect the body parts (face part?) in question. After ending the kiss, he lifted Paul’s face to meet his eyes again. 

“I’m so sorry, Paulie, I’m so fucking sorry. I know I said that last time but I mean it still and god, trust me, I’m going to do so much better than before, try so much harder.” His voice was tight. 

Paul smiled again, lifting his arms to drape them around John’s shoulders, and pulled him into a hug. 

“Okay,” he whispered, holding tightly onto John’s warm body. John rocked him slightly, side to side, clutching back just as tight. 

He loosened his grip after a whole minute, sliding his hands down to grab John’s and pulled them towards their bed. 

“You must be exhausted, luv, let’s take a kip, yeah?” Paul said, his voice still soft, gentle. 

God, John adored him so. Always forgiving, always kind and thoughtful; he was so lucky, too lucky. 

He pulled the younger down onto the mattress with him, shoving down the covers underneath them and bringing them up to cover their bodies. John laid an arm on Paul’s waist, the younger man forgetting to be ashamed of himself. John wasn’t angry, he /loved/ him, and Paul couldn’t help but be overcome with the usual infatuation he felt almost constantly for the other man, blocking out any anxieties if only for a moment. 

He sighed into the pillow, placing his hand on top of John’s and laced their fingers together. 

This is happiness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has no planned story line and i wrote most of this up to this point on a plane so take it with a grain of salt. also holy fuck? one of my favorite authors EVER on this site gave this kudos. think i've died and gone to heaven to be real honest

a week later

“You’re lookin’ a bit thin, Paulie, when’s the last time you ate?” Ringo asked, gently touching the younger man’s exposed forearm. 

They both stood in the small kitchen, George and John shoving and quarreling with each other on the sofa in the next room, the telly on and displaying a movie. Their laughter echoed into the kitchen, bouncing off the walls and slightly cluttered surfaces. 

Paul tugged his right sleeve down nervously after Ringo removed his hand from his other arm. 

“That’s nice to hear,” he said, smiling softly, “why do you ask, though, Ritch? You know I can take care of meself.”

Sighing, the older man glanced for a second at the two men in the other room, then directed his attention back to Paul. 

“I do know, son. But it’s been, what, two weeks or more since you’ve eaten with any of us? I know you haven't been eating without us, either, so don't try to cover it up. Please talk to me, Paul. You should know that you can always come to me about anything.”

He held Ringo’s gaze for a moment, shifting his focus between each eye. He had beautiful eyes, the only one with blue out of the four of them. the older always comforted Paul, exuding an aura of calm and peacefulness. His eyes did too. 

That’s probably what brought him and George together, the big brooding cunt, he thought. Opposites attract, so they say. 

Paul’s smile widened, turning his back on the other man and grabbing beers for the four of them from their fridge. 

“Not right now, Rings. Ta, though. I’ll take you up on that sometime.” 

A short silence hung in the air before he finished with “Soon, probably.”

“Please take care of yourself, mate. None of us want to see you sufferin’, cus you know we can tell, right? No matter how well you try to hide it.” 

He placed a hand on Paul's shoulder, squeezing gently before letting go. Pulling out another cigarette from his pack, he struck a match from the little book on the kitchen counter, lighting it up. After giving the cig a few quick puffs and watching the embers spread around the circumference of the rolled paper, he tossed the spent match into the sink. A quiet sizzle was heard as its embers landed on the damp metal of the drain. 

Paul nodded slightly, muttering a “‘kay” and walking into their living room. He sat the beers down, John whipping out his pocket knife to open them up. 

——-

After getting positively plastered, the boys were in a heap in the cramped living room. 

George spooned Ringo on one end, and Paul was curled up against the arm on the other. John lay on the carpet in front of it, glasses hanging off his face haphazardly. The coffee table in front of them was littered with beer bottles, a bottle of tequila (a gift), and two empty shot glasses.

Their beer-stained boxers rubbed against the worn fabric of the couch, John presumably getting rug burned as he squirmed on the floor. His hips ached as he turned, mind sliding into consciousness. Stretching his legs, his toes curled; he pushed himself onto his elbows. John’s eyes refocused as he pushed his glasses up his nose, and rose to his feet to plop himself down next to Paul. 

Paul twitched as he slept; his lips, eyes, fingers, pretty much his whole body. He had recently started doing it while awake, too. A compulsion he thought had been long outgrown. George looked angelic while asleep, like the baby Paul always deemed him to be. A familiar and comforting sight, the slight man’s chest slowly rising and falling and long hair strewn over his features. Ringo’s hand clutched George’s fingers as they wrapped around his own. He was in the younger’s lap, hips flush against George’s stomach. 

John placed a hand on Paul’s cheek, thumb stroking the coarse stubble decorating soft skin. 

“Paulie, wake up, me love,” he whispered, a sing-song lilt in his voice. “C’mon, sleeping beauty, let’s get in bed.” And into each other’s pants. Aye, that sweet ass is calling John’s name. 

A sleepy groan left the younger man’s lips, his extremities tensing up briefly before relaxing again. John slid his free hand up Paul’s leg, past his knee and onto his thigh. A smile graced his features, eyes fluttering open and hands slipping out to meet John’s wandering touches. Paul whimpered when John laced their fingers together and pushed them up and above paul’s head. 

The sloppy sexual tension was thick between them. While John went in to suck on Paul’s neck, the younger man moaned, silenced haphazardly by lips on his, cutting him off before he woke the others.  
But alas.  
all good things must come to an end. 

He wanted to fuck John, yes. Yes yes yes. He did. Dick half hard in his pants, he let out a whine, biting his lip. His head had begun to hurt and he wanted to cry, the mix of alcohol and his pills making him ill. Unfortunately, he’d most likely have to take a rain check on the (very lovely) sex with John. 

Paul was consistently making himself sick, forgetting to take his meds, the pills that were supposed to help with the episodes of sadness and happiness flip-flopping like a fish dying on land. But he couldn’t bring himself to remember them every day; whenever he saw and acknowledged the orange bottle he took them, which was often enough. So Paul thought. 

“Johnny, John,” he gasped, pulling away. “I’m sorry, luv, me- me fuckin’ head,” He let his head fall back against the couch, bringing both hands up to rub at his eyes as he let out a sigh. 

John shifted the couch, sitting on Ringo’s leg in the process and waking the older man. He ignored the other’s sleepily mumbled protests as he pulled Paul onto his lap, the younger man quickly burying his face in John’s neck. 

John began rubbing Paul’s back, hand slipped up underneath the thin shirt he had on. Paul's cheeks heated up as he felt the older man’s other hand gently settle on where his hips and ass met, the slight thickness allowing his fingers to sink in a bit. 

“Go back to sleep, Ritchie,” John whispered, rocking Paul in his lap. Paul grabbed two handfuls of John’s shirt and a bit of skin as well, pressing his body tightly against his own. His head still ached, waves of pain washing over and then retreating. 

“Let’s go to bed, alright?” John said, placing a hand in Paul’s cheek and pulling him in for a kiss.

He climbed off of John and stood, waiting for the older man as he did the same. Paul threw a blanket onto the two still occupying the couch; Placing a hand in the small of his back, John guided him down the hall to their bedroom, slowly slipping down to squeeze Paul’s bum. He squeaked turning to throw an arm around John’s shoulders as he connected their hips. 

“Are you up for anythin’ right now, luv?,” John asked, closing the door behind them and locking it. 

“Get me somethin’ for me head first, please,” he replied after a few seconds of silence. 

John complied, leaving him alone briefly as he went to grab pain pills from their bathroom. 

When he came back a few minutes later after digging through the cluttered countertop and cabinet, finally having found migraine medicine, the other man was fast asleep in their bed. John smiled, placing the pills on the closest flat surface and crawled in next to him. 

“Rain check, babe?” He whispered, brushing Paul’s hair out of his eyes. 

Wrapping his arms around the sleeping man, he kissed his jaw and settled in.


End file.
